Lampposts flicker in the dead of night, casting their yellow light across the coal-tar ground.
There aren't many cars on the highway tonight, yet my hold on the steering wheel is weak—still trembling slightly.
I drive at a snail's pace, my mind lagging behind, like my body isn't my own.
I barely pay heed to the road ahead, just letting instinct carry me home as I navigate absentmindedly.
A sharp, oscillating howl echoes down the street. The distant wail of a siren rises and falls, slicing through the night air.
My stomach twists—hollow and tight.
Breath catches in my throat. Cold sweat breaks out along the back of my neck, my tremor worsening.
Have I been caught?
The thought haunts me.
The weight in my gut settles as relief washes through me in heavy waves when the police car races past mine on the empty road.
Drenched in sweat, I pull over. My head falls weightlessly against the steering wheel as I heave, thanking God.
When I reach the slums that make up my street, I turn off the revving engine, the broken headlight flickering to a stop—only one still works.
I contemplate sitting there forever.
It's calmer here. Quieter. Less daunting.
My head lolls back against the headrest. Exhaustion eats at me.
Two days.
That's all it took for my life to shatter completely—smashed to powder, not even pieces.
Ruined beyond repair.
And then I release the weight that's been sitting on my chest. It's become too heavy to carry.
One by one, the tears trail down my face as I recount everything that led to this moment.
My father on his deathbed.
I'm now tied to a fifty-nine-year-old geezer for life.
I—I'm a murderer.
All this in less than forty-eight hours.
I scream, letting out all the rage and frustration swelling inside me, growing inside me.
More tears burst forth as I weep like a broken dam, torment and agony clawing and ripping me apart.
It's not fair. None of it is fair.
The weight on my shoulders is too heavy to bear, and eventually, it'll crush me beneath it.
It already has—beyond redemption. I'm fighting a force I can't see, fighting myself, my own life. And I'm not sure I'll emerge the winner.
So I swallow my pain.
A faint light from the small window catches my eyes. My eyelids flutter, surprise crossing my face.
Someone's home.
I gulp, my mouth going dry as I wipe the tears away in haste, schooling my features into the reserved, composed girl who isn't slowly dying inside.
The slam of the car door echoes in the night. The distant howling of something and the crying crickets remind me what time it is.
I step out, heading toward the house, my hands doing a last-minute wipe across my cheeks.
The door is unlocked.
It's Aunt Maya.
I hear the whistle of the kettle and the scent of eggs and toast fills the air.
My stomach grumbles in response, reminding me I haven't eaten.
I sigh. Worry slams into my chest as it hits me—she must have left Dad alone in the hospital.
She's in my sight before I approach her. Two steaming mugs in her hands, no doubt filled with tea.
Her wrinkled eyes cut to me, scanning my face quickly. I want to look away.
Could she have heard me?... No.
"How was Mass today?" Her tone is casual, giving nothing away.
"It was good. Father preached about help," I tell her, stepping aside as she walks past to set the chipped mugs on the tiny wooden table we share.
"Mm." She hums softly, the base of the mugs clinking against the wood.
"He said sometimes God doesn't remove the struggle. He gives you the strength to endure it."
Aunt Maya nods, the cross of her rosary—the one she always wears—swinging as she pulls out a plastic chair.
"Is that what made you change your mind?"
My heart skips, pounding in my throat. "Maybe," I whisper, turning toward my room.
"Evie."
I pause, freezing mid-step.
"Thank you," she murmurs. I hear the deep gratitude in her voice; I can almost see it dancing in her eyes when I turn to face her.
But I narrow mine instead, holding my tongue to avoid stirring trouble. I nod and walk away, leaving behind the steaming mug meant for me.
...
Come dawn the next day, I'm in church—among the souls that find themselves stained.
Two confessional booths sit adjacent to each other, people slipping in and out with bowed heads and clasped hands.
The line grows shorter until it's my turn.
I exhale a sharp breath, my pulse skittering as I'm signaled forward.
Rising on my heels, I make my way toward the booth on the left. My steps are reluctant, but I drag them forward anyway.
When the booth looms before me, my hackles rise. Forcing the fear down my throat, I tell myself I can do this. It'll be easy.
I've done this a few times before—just tell the ears of God what I did wrong and repent.
So I go in.
To make it easier, I keep my head down, refusing to look at whoever's inside as I wait for judgment.
Scratch that—penance.
Silence stretches, thick and suffocating, until I find it hard to breathe.
"Take a seat."
Deep and wrapped in velvet, the voice slices through the silence like a blade through butter.
I do. I sit.
Then that same calm, rich voice hums again.
"Welcome. Take your time and speak freely. God already knows your heart."
The automated greeting feels different this time. If it's supposed to soothe me, it doesn't.
My lips part, then close again. My thoughts war with my conscience.
I'm not sure I can do this.
Then I block everything out and start, my voice trembling.
"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It's been five months since my last confession."
Yeah, I've stayed away from church that long.
No wonder my prayers go unanswered.
Or maybe God is too busy with his devotees, and I'm further down the list.
My voice falters, my eyes dart to my feet, unshed tears glistening at the corners.
I squeeze my eyes shut, tight at the seams, and drop it.
"I m…m…murdered a m-man."
Silence. Pin-drop silence.
My heart sinks to the abyss as I await a gasp, a scolding—anything.
But nothing comes.
Just silence. Heavy and consuming.
Then, slowly, I raise my head.
And my heart does a final tumble when my wide eyes meet the grey ones behind a pair of glasses—
wrenching a gasp from my throat.